


heaven help the fools who fall in love

by brucespringsteen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Curse Breaking, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Canon Fix-It, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Timeline What Timeline, Top Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28678935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen/pseuds/brucespringsteen
Summary: “Jaskier? Jaskier, are you—“ Geralt trails off as his eyes scan the room, landing on the middle of the bed where Jaskier is curled up into himself. Geralt sighs because of course he knows what’s going on immediately; he’s a smart bastard, after all. “Fuck.”-After flouncing around with the wife of a sorceress, Jaskier is cursed into a mutt of a dog. Geralt isn't nearly as worried about this sudden problem as Jaskier thinks he should be.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 391





	heaven help the fools who fall in love

**Author's Note:**

> pls enjoy my contribution to the obligatory cursed jaskier fic collection. thank u. 
> 
> everybody say thank you to [heather](https://twitter.com/inflomora_art) for being the beta i have always needed. mwah.

Truthfully, Jaskier should’ve seen this coming.

He’s no fool. Most of the continent—and Geralt especially, he supposes—believes him to be a lackluster bard whose only talent is weaving slightly exaggerated tales of valor endured by a certain witcher, but nobody seems to reconcile that it takes a vast load of intellect and self-awareness to be a poet, and especially one so remarkably accomplished.

(He is a poet no matter what Geralt says. It isn’t everyone that can weave fabled tunes from the gory stories that cling to witchers, and Jaskier is doing his best. Or, was doing his best, that is, before he was turned into a lousy mutt of a dog.)

(Anyway.)

Jaskier is no fool. Perhaps he thinks with the wrong head at times—he can hardly be bothered to acknowledge his ignorance; attraction is a woe of a thing that he has long refused to attempt to understand—and though he gets himself into trouble, often, by stepping on the toes of absent lovers who always happen to return at the worst of times, he tends to see himself right out of that trouble, too.

He’s quite self-sufficient. One has to be when one lives a life on the road.

Not this time, though.

Geralt left him behind to chase after a contract, promising to return by nightfall of the next day. And that was fine; Jaskier doesn’t need a keeper, and he has gone far longer without having Geralt at his back as he sleeps, even though it is odd not to feel that weight and warmth next to him after traveling the summer together while Ciri spends the season with Yennefer.

But Jaskier gets restless, and getting restless means he goes about taverns and town circles performing, and performing means taking advantage of free ale, and free ale means he gets loose and loopy and love-drunk on anyone who pays him attention.

As it happens, the person who caught his fancy and gave him attention this evening was the wife of the witch that lives on the edge of town.

And when the witch waltzed into the alleyway behind the tavern, in her long black robes etched with dark green stitchings and blue eyes that shined like jewels in her dark face, she made quick work of disentangling Jaskier from the skirts of her wife. And then she made even quicker work of weaving an enchantment that morphed Jaskier into a dog before he could open his mouth to explain that it was _her_ who wrapped her fist in his chemise, and _her_ who drew him through the tavern and out the door in the back, and _her_ who pushed him against the cold brick wall, and _her_ who kissed his lips, and _her_ who stuck his hand up under the skirts of her dress to feel her slickness.

The witch didn’t want to hear it.

And now he’s a dog.

This is all Geralt’s fault, you know. Perhaps he needs a keeper, after all.

*

A few moments in this new shortcoming, Jaskier decides that he’s a very lousy dog.

Everything is heightened—his sense of smell has improved, which is a curse, truly, because all he scents is stagnant piss and sweat in the alleyway, and he can hear the faint, feverish words passed between the witch and her wife, even though they’re several moments away, and he wonders if this is how Geralt feels, and then is stricken because surely the man is so gruff and angry because he’s constantly stimulated beyond his control. His eyes feel dim, though, like he’s looking through foggy, scratched glass; he hates this already.

He noses about for a moment. Four legs are a lot different from two; his tail is his center of balance, and it’s odd, having to reorient himself from a human to a dog. He falls down twice before he huffs and lifts his chin in the air and decides that, dammit, everything’s going to be okay.

He’s fine. It can’t be that hard. More legs should mean it’s easier to maneuver.

(It isn’t.)

He finds the stone steps that lead up to the door without too much trouble. Jumping up is difficult—he has to back up a few paces before he shoots off, and he falls onto his back four times before he manages to actually stick the landing.

The door is another inconvenience altogether. It’s wooden, and it isn’t shut tight; there’s a bit of light peaking out around the trim and he sticks his nose in the crack, wiggles about until there’s a slighter larger opening. And then it shuts, and pinches his nose—his snout—and he yowls, and, fuck, the sound of a pitiful, pitched high dog whine _coming from him_ makes him more angry than he is hurt.

He’s a bard—he’s a poet. He weaves songs out of stories he hears hmm’ed and haw’ed from the man he chooses to follow around (like a lost puppy, his brain supplies, and that’s just bullshit because he may be a dog, but he isn’t lost, and he does well for himself even when Geralt is not around), and then he sings them, and his voice is fucking beautiful, it’s stunning, it leaves hearts full and pockets empty, and now his voice has been taken from him and he’s become the very thing that he never wanted to be.

Well.

Screw her. _Screw her_. And fuck the witch, too. She could’ve taken away his voice _without_ turning him into a mutt, but no, _no_ , she had to be greedy.

Jaskier scoffs. It comes out as an odd half-sneeze. He scoffs again just to hear the noise.

He tries the door once more. The same thing happens: he noses in with his snout and opens the gap just a bit, but it’s too heavy and it snaps shut again. He moves out of the way before it can nip at his snout, though.

He sighs. Or, he tries to. He wants to.

He sits back on his haunches and waits. The door opens a few moments later; a big, burly man with red hair steps outside. Another man follows him, and Jaskier spares them a glance—they’re clearly in love, drunk on ale and passion, and they’re fondling one another on the way to the darkest part of the alley—before he surges inside.

The tavern is a lot bigger when he’s a fraction of the size he was before. It’s easy to stay hidden, well below the line of sight for the occupants; he has to be cautious of feet, though, because the tenants are inebriated and raucous, not looking where they step as they cheer and jostle in glee. He supposes he should be thankful that they’re too consumed with joy at having the threat to their town vanquished by Geralt than to pay attention for the tawny-colored pup that’s weaving about the room.

And, fuck— _Geralt_.

Jaskier huffs. It comes out as a woof, a little puppy-like exhale. Geralt is going to be so pissed at him.

He makes his way to the stairs that lead up to the few rooms; now that he knows how to climb with his puppy paws, it only takes him half the time that it did earlier. The door to the room he shares with Geralt is shut, but he’s tall enough, standing on his two hind legs with his front paws braced against the wood, to fiddle with the knob and get himself inside.

The vibrant colors of the decorative tapestry hung up on the wall behind the bed are muted, like he’s seeing it through a darkened scale of color. The bed is made; his pack is on the desk, and Geralt’s is stuffed just under the bed.

He makes another noise, only half-startled when it comes out as a faint bark. He’s exhausted—somehow, between performing for the patrons of the tavern and being turned into a mutt for having his fingers stuffed in the wet warmth of a married woman, he tired out.

He tries to jump on the bed. Falls off. He backs up, has a running start; he grapples, digging his claws in the fabric of the knit quilt, and fights his way up. The bed is a lot bigger now than it was earlier. He spins in circles once, twice, three times—and why, surely, he doesn’t know; perhaps it’s a dog’s instinct to circle, because it’s definitely not his—before plopping down in the middle of the bed.

His tail flops. He opens his jowls in a big yawn. He shuts his eyes and sleeps.

*

Jaskier is startled awake when the door opens and closes swiftly. He hears the lock turn and blinks, blearily, and tries to bring his hands up to rub the sleep from his eyes. But, then—he’s a dog.

“Jaskier?” It’s Geralt; of course it’s Geralt. He’s holding a candle in his hand; that faint light, in addition to the white of the full moon shining through the window, is enough for Jaskier to see that Geralt has innards and ichor dripping from his armor. Nasty. “Have you fallen asleep on the floor again?”

Jaskier whines, a pitiful mewl. It was once, years ago, before the mountain even, and Geralt has not let it fade since he came into the room they were sharing at an inn to see Jaskier on the floor, sleeping, curled up tight in Geralt’s cloak because it’s all he could reach and, really, Geralt ought to be happy that Jaskier vomited out the window and not on his clothes that night, and he plans to tell him so, just as soon as he gets rid of this mutt form.

Geralt’s eyes shine bright. The yellow is muted, like the brilliant colors in the tapestry were, and Jaskier finds that he does not like that one bit. He doesn’t dwell on the reason why; he’s gotten so used to seeing the dark lemon-like color through the years that it feels odd for the hue to be so dim. That’s it, is all. It isn’t as if he _likes_ the color of Geralt’s eyes. They’re pretty, like wildflowers, like dandelions, but they’re not his _favorite_.

“Jaskier? Jaskier, are you—“ Geralt trails off as his eyes scan the room, landing on the middle of the bed where Jaskier is curled up into himself. Geralt sighs because of course he knows what’s going on immediately; he’s a smart bastard, after all. “Fuck.”

*

After going about the room and lighting the candles, Geralt calls for a bath. The innkeeper, half-drunk with his shirttails untucked, grumbles, but tells his sons to bring up buckets of water till the wooden tub is nearly overflowing. Geralt, ever the connoisseur of _igni_ , heats the water till it’s steaming, hot enough to turn skin red.

He strips, peeling off the armor and clothes beneath. This is something Jaskier has seen many times before, but still—the breadth of Geralt’s shoulders, the tapering of Geralt’s waist, the length of Geralt’s thighs, the rippling muscle and milky-white skin, dotted with scars that are older than Jaskier by decades, is like the large, immodest paintings in his family home.

Plus, Geralt has a cock that can drive even the most monogamous man to tears. It’s not too long, the perfect length, and it’s pink and wide and pretty, deliciously fat when it’s hard; many a times Jaskier has lain awake, mere inches from Geralt, and thought about what it would be like to sit on his cock. It’s so large, and Jaskier isn’t a slight man—he’s grown, just a bit, from the time when he first started dawdling after Geralt like a lost puppy, and _damn that witch_ for cursing him to be just that—and he thinks that, if he were to ever lower himself down and spear himself on Geralt’s cock, he’ll feel it all the way in his guts, in his throat.

Anyway. Thinking about how good Geralt’s fat cock would feel inside him is _a lot_ different than thinking about how soothing and alleviating Geralt’s unnatural eyes are in the middle of the night.

Geralt climbs into the tub. He displaces water over the side; Jaskier jumps from the bed, half-asleep still, and lands awkwardly, still unused to his new legs, and goes to drag Geralt’s clothes away from the puddle. This man is incorrigible—without Jaskier by his side, Geralt wouldn’t know the simple joys in life like rubbing salve over sore spots or drinking berried wine with a bath or watching the colors of the sky reflect off the crepitating water of whatever lake they camp by.

And speaking of candid delights—Jaskier turns to his pack and barks.

Geralt turns to him, furrowing his brows. “I’m unhurt,” he grunts. “The contract was easy.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. Jaskier _tries_ to roll his eyes. He barks at his pack again.

Geralt sighs. “I’m fine, Jaskier _._ ”

Jaskier whines pitifully. He wishes to say, _You stubborn fool._ He wishes to say, _The salve is for the soreness in your muscles_. He wishes to say, _I did not ask Yennefer to explain to me the best herbs to use for you to ignore me_. He wishes to say, _It is okay_. He wishes to say, _There is nothing wrong in taking care of yourself, Geralt_.

Even if he could speak he doesn’t think he would outright say those words. His and Geralt’s relationship has endured through the years; it’s grown and flourished, and the roots of their loyalty to one another lie even deeper than those of ancient trees that have seen civilizations rise and fall, but devotion to see each other alive and well is not the same as baring the deepest inclinations of the soul.

Instead, he huffs and tosses his tail as he ambles toward his pack. He pulls it from its perch on the counter and topples it over. Undoing the binds is an ordeal, but he chews here and there, and rips a few buttons off, and then he’s digging through the pack in just a few seconds, locating the tin of salve through smell alone—how amazing; the height of his senses is oddly empowering—and bites it between his teeth. He ambles back toward the tub, holding the tin, trotting with his tail held high.

Geralt looks at him, unimpressed. “You seem proud.”

He holds the tin in his mouth and blinks. So what if there’s a tingle of pride filtering down his spine? He’s a dog—a mutt, in fact—and he was able to cater to at least two of Geralt’s unknown needs while being in this situation. That’s something to be pleased about.

“Jaskier.” Geralt sighs once more and holds his hand out; Jaskier drops the tin in Geralt’s palm with a woof. _Thank you._ “You’re more insufferable as a mutt than you are a human, I believe.”

Jaskier does not take offense. To live with and travel alongside Geralt and still have a soft, tender heart to bitten words is self-sabotage. Luckily for Jaskier, he was numb to the words people tossed his way long before he met his most beloved friend.

There’s a shelf on the other side of the bath. On it, Geralt has sat out soaps and rags; he sets the tin of salve down as he reaches for the honeysuckle-scented bar of soap. “Let me wash and then I’ll use your salve,” he says. “Bug off and let me bathe.”

Jaskier makes a noise and ignores Geralt’s instruction, sitting back on his hind legs instead so he can watch the show and make sure Geralt pays attention to all of his body. He’s handsome, strikingly so with the odd colors that bring who he is together, but nobody, even Geralt, is appetizing with gore and guts from whatever creature it is that he was hunting for the evening.

Geralt huffs. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he says, but there’s no malice behind his words. He knows better than to be hateful, especially after the mountain. Jaskier simpers.

He watches Geralt soap up the rag till it’s sudsy. Geralt wipes his body, efficient and quick, and removes all the ichor, as clinical as he’s always been. He reaches for a different bar of soap, then—lavender-scented, one of the few luxuries that he does not complain about when Jaskier wants to spoil him with good things—and dunks his head beneath the water. He emerges, sopping, face obscured; he works the bar in his hands and shoves his fingers through his hair for a long moment before slipping beneath the water once again. He lathers the soap in his hair once more and lets it sit, relaxing against the rim of the tub as the water eases the aches and pains of the day.

Jaskier watches the entire thing. He’s riveted in a way he never has been before. Yes, being privy to the gentle actions of Geralt as he bathes has always been something that Jaskier enjoys, and perhaps too much. He can’t help himself, however—there’s something captivating about watching a man as large and imposing as Geralt learn to meticulously clean himself, and do so with a benevolence that most deem beneath.

But it’s different this time. Jaskier’s senses are heightened, and he can smell and hear everything.

He smells the honeysuckle soap clinging to Geralt’s skin. He hears the faint swish-swish of Geralt’s legs sliding together beneath the water as he moves, rubbing together. He smells the muted remains of the leftover carnage that clung to Geralt, on his flesh and in his clothing and along his scalp. He hears the muffled puffs of breath that leave Geralt’s lips as he drags the rag across sensitive bits of his body, wiping clean. He smells the lavender of Geralt’s freshly washed hair, and wishes with an urgency so deep in the meat of his fat heart that he was human again so he may run his fingers through the silk-like strands.

But that’s stupid. Because, even if he were human, Geralt would not let him. And Jaskier would not ask. That’s not something they do.

“You make a cuter dog than I would have thought,” Geralt says, absently, dragging Jaskier from his thoughts. “Your fur is even the same color as your hair.” Jaskier huffs, miffed. Geralt hums and holds his hand out. “Come here.” Jaskier moves forward and sets his snout into Geralt’s palm; Geralt’s fingers are calloused and rough as he caresses the delicate skin. “Oh, Jask. What has happened to you?”

If Jaskier could sob, he thinks he would’ve. There is a kindness in the depth of Geralt’s soul—Jaskier, emphatic and entreating, draws it out whenever he can. It is a _blessing_.

“I leave you alone for one evening and you get yourself into this mess.” Geralt continues to rub Jaskier’s furry face with fingers inured from his trials. “You stink of magic.”

Jaskier whimpers. He knows his scent is often too much for Geralt, and he tends to lessen his use of perfumes and oils whenever they’re traveling together so he doesn’t overwhelm Geralt’s senses.

“It isn’t unpleasant,” Geralt promises as he scratches beneath Jaskier’s jowl. It feels a lot better than it should. “You always smell faintly of magic. Like earth—dirt and green weeds and dusty sunshine. Springtime. Or autumn, just before winter when everything is dying.” Jaskier hides his flinch; part of the reason he prefers falsified perfumes is because they tend to mask the scent of his very own magic, meager as it is. “I can track the mage who did this to you tomorrow morning.”

Jaskier wants to howl in relief. So he does. Geralt hurries to shush him.

“None of that.” Geralt taps Jaskier on the nose, not unkindly. “It’s bad enough that I have to listen to your incessant chatter when you can speak. Hearing you howl is not the added bonus I’m sure you think it is.”

Jaskier nips at Geralt’s fingers. Geralt offers Jaskier an adoring—ha, _adoring_ , and how goddamn odd is that; he only looks at Ciri with that kind of fondness—smile and pets across his floppy ears.

“Get some rest, Jaskier. Crawl up in bed and lay on your pillow. I’ll be there in a moment.” He gives Jaskier one last pat on the head before retracting his arm. “We have a long trip ahead of us.”

*

Jaskier has odd dreams. He isn’t sure if it’s because he’s a dog or simply something that he must overcome internally in order to rest, but he finds that they are terrifying. It’s flashes of light, so much brighter than they would be even as a human; it’s sounds that rock the ground and split the sky, and he sees himself, on his knees, in dirt that is the same color as his hair. He is pulling green spirals of life from all over, giving a second chance to everything that is being destroyed.

This is what his life would be like if it was known what he is. Hiding behind odoriferous perfumes and letting his magic out in isolated spurts is a sad life, but it is one that he chose for himself and is better than the one he would have led had he accepted the offer from the wood. He doesn’t mind bringing a field of trampled flowers back to life every once in a while if it means that he can keep the ones he loves safe. Besides, if he were to showcase his magic, he may not have ever met Geralt.

And that’s the real nightmare of it all, really—a life without his witcher.

He whimpers and kicks out. He wakes up and lets loose a yowl of anguish.

Geralt reaches for him in the dark of the room, curling his hand on Jaskier’s furry tummy and pulling his little dog body into the expanse of his chest. “Settle,” Geralt soothes, sleepily. His voice is deep, like rich velvet, soft and exciting. His touch is a balm. “Settle, Jask. It’ll be okay.”

The nickname startles Jaskier. It is not the first time he has called Jaskier such, but it is the first time it has been uttered with an incredible amount of affection that it surely would’ve bowled Jaskier over had he been in his rightful body.

He goes to sleep, basking in the warmth of Geralt’s chest. This is enough for now.

*

As promised, Geralt tracks the mage who turned Jaskier into a dog the following morning, just after dawn. The blue light, masked by the clouds, makes Jaskier shiver. Geralt looks down at him, pity in the yellow of his eyes, something that isn’t new but is newly directed at him, and opens the bottom of his cape; Jaskier, glad to be out of sight, hides himself beneath the hem, delighting in the clean scent of his witcher as he patters along at a steady pace.

The house the mage occupies is out of the way of the town, tucked just beneath a ridge of dark green foliage and surrounded on either side by tall pine trees that smell heavily of late-blown pollen. It is small and made of light brown rock that has ivy crawling up the cracks; the smoke rolling from the chimney smells of blackberries and lilac and magic, musk and earth and dirt. Jaskier stays at Geralt’s feet, using the cloak as camouflage.

Geralt knocks, once. The door opens a moment later. The mage—beautiful, with skin as dark as midnight and blue eyes, somehow even darker, though they shine like the sea; how peculiar—is dressed in a light pink gown. She is stunning, with an air of superiority and strength; Yennefer would love her.

She snarls at Geralt, unafraid. “What do you want, Witcher?”

“You turned my friend into a dog.”

Her eyes fall to Geralt’s feet, where Jaskier is cowering, tucked in the cloak. “That I did.” Her grin is feral and pleased. “He’s lasted longer as a dog than I would have figured. I thought surely he would have been tossed out in the street to fend for himself.” She tsks, seemingly disappointed in the turn of events. “I should have considered that you wouldn’t let that happen.” 

Geralt hums. Jaskier bites his ankle, lightly, warningly, as if saying, _Now is not the time for you to forget how to use your words, my darling._

Geralt looks at him. His eyes are so yellow, so like the sun—how anyone can ever think Geralt evil when he looks so obscenely _good_ is beyond Jaskier.

Geralt sighs and lets his shoulders sag; Jaskier thinks, abruptly, of the banquet years ago when Geralt invoked the Law of Surprise. “I would appreciate it if you would change him back.”

“No.”

“Consider it.”

Again, the mage says, “No.”

Jaskier bristles. He refuses to make a noise, but, oh, how he would love to clue her in to the chaos in his mind but, alas, he will not _bark_. He may be an animal, now, but he is not a fucking dog. That is _so_ beneath him.

The mage glances down at him. “He’s an ugly dog,” she says.

Jaskier prickles. He wants to bite her on the ankle, too, and draw blood—even though that is probably not a good idea. He simply wants her to suffer at least a fraction.

Geralt grunts. “Enough,” he says. His voice is hard as rock, and Jaskier thinks Geralt has never been more amazing than he is now, with his lovely hair, so like starlight, shining in the dawn light and fighting for Jaskier’s wellbeing. “Will it end on its own?”

The mage narrows her eyes. “Yes,” she replies, bored. “It should.”

“It should?”

She shrugs. The shoulder of her dress is loose, as if she hurried to tug it on before answering the door. Jaskier feels no remorse for interrupting whatever activities she was engaging in. It serves her right.

“Yes, it should.” She sighs. “Transformation spells are finicky. It will sort itself out in the end, one way or another.”

Jaskier whines. Geralt sighs and asks, “And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I suppose you are stuck with a dog as your companion,” she answers. “Better than a lovesick bard, if you want my opinion.”

How dare she—Jaskier is not a _lovesick bard_. That’s presumptuous and incredibly false. If Jaskier were human he would be squealing. Perhaps this curse is a blessing, if only for this moment.

“I didn’t ask for it.”

She huffs and shuts the door in Geralt’s face. Jaskier can hear the lock turn, something that is so profoundly odd, and then there’s quiet whispers and soft giggles, telltale noises of resumed lovemaking, slick and wet, and he pouts. He nudges his nose against Geralt’s leg, more to block the scent of fucking than to get Geralt’s attention. Everything is so _much_ right now.

Geralt hums beneath his breath. “Cheer up, Jaskier,” he says, dryly, as if this is nothing—as if the possibility of being a dog for an indiscernible amount of time is not extremely life-altering and terrifying. “We get to visit Yennefer and Ciri earlier than we planned.”

Jaskier pulls a petulant expression.

Yennefer is _so_ going to make fun of him for getting into this mess.

*

Keeping up with Roach, as a human, is quite hard. Jaskier makes it look easy, of course—and looks damn good doing it, also, if he may say so—but it’s not a stroll through the woods, as they say. He’s often left exhausted after the day; cramps wake him up more than the dawn light and he wears several pairs of boots down to nothing throughout the year, but he doesn’t complain. It’s his choice to follow Geralt, after all.

(He’s too vain to purchase his own horse. All this walking over the years has done wonders for his ass; it’s not his best feature but it’s the one that catches everyone’s eyes the quickest, and he doesn’t want to lose that.)

Oddly enough, it’s more of a struggle to match Roach’s meandering pace as a dog. Jaskier would have thought that it would’ve been easier on four legs instead of two. That only makes _sense_ , after all.

But, then again, nothing makes sense right now. He’s a dog. A cute dog—he caught a reflection of himself in the clear, lazily crepitating creek they stopped at hours ago for a rest—with fur the color of his chestnut hair and the same blue eyes, but a dog nonetheless, with floppy ears and an elongated muzzle. _Not human._

And it’s difficult. Everything is so _difficult_. And his paws—his _feet_ —hurt, bruised from the stones he’s traipsed hurriedly over in order to keep up with Roach’s pace and stinging from the burn of the sunlight above saturating the soil. He can’t wait for the sun to set against the tall, towering trees so that he may finally rest.

His pack and lute are tied next to Geralt’s things on Roach’s saddle. He watches his instrument with varying levels of disdain; he wishes he could hold it, tug at the strings and create a tune from his thoughts. He’s been itching with the to need create, which happens when he goes long periods of time without shaping something new.

There’s been a melody in his head for a few days. It flows easy, like lazy water across sharp rocks, with an easy rhythm. He has no words, but the sound starts small, tap-tap-boom, and speeds up till it’s thunder, raucous, and he does not know what story belongs with it, but he knows it’s going to be epic.

Who knows? Maybe this experience will be the push he needs to fabricate a tale large enough to be worthy of the beat he can hear in his bones.

Then again, who would want to hear a song about a mutt?

“Jaskier.”

Drawn from his thoughts, Jaskier perks up, raising his eyes. Geralt has slowed Roach’s pace enough that they are nearly side by side. He sees that Geralt’s brows are furrowed and he’s frowning; it’s hard to read him at this angle, so far down, but Jaskier doesn’t think Geralt is angry. If anything, he seems—perplexed and maybe, _maybe_ , just a little worried.

But that’s wrong. Surely. Geralt isn’t _worried_ about him. If anything, Geralt is annoyed by him—he’s a beacon for trouble, it seems, and he can’t even get himself out of it this time.

“Try to keep up,” Geralt says. “We still have a few more hours to go before we need to set up camp.”

*

It’s simple. Jaskier loves Geralt.

He has, for a while. It’s not that much of a secret—anyone who cares to spend a few moments in Jaskier’s presence can discern, at least, that Geralt is important to him, if not the most prominent fixture in his life and the one who holds his heart—but he keeps it to himself.

He’s a private person. He talks a lot, converses in order to waste time or draw suspicion away from himself or Geralt, but for all the words that he speaks he doesn’t say much at all. To understand Jaskier is to listen to the art he creates. Everything is said in his songs.

So, yeah, he loves Geralt. He loves Geralt fiercely and wholly and completely, acknowledging his bad qualities, understanding that they do not outweigh his good, his nobility and his intelligence and his kindness and his empathy for the world, all the things that make Geralt who he is, entirely separate from the fabricated White Wolf, and that’s reflected in his music.

All you have to do is listen.

*

It’s hours later, long after the sun has set and the moon has risen and bathed the world in pearly light, when Geralt decides to slow Roach to a halt and set up camp in an alcove of trees just beyond the well-worn path.

Jaskier stays out of the way and to the side while Geralt goes about the nightly routine. He sits on his haunches and digs his paws into the thick beds of clovers, soothing the ache left behind from hours of walking.

He understands why Geralt rode hard and pressed them to cover more ground today than they usually average, and he can’t find it in him to be angry, but he would rather spend a few extra days as a dog if it means that his paws won’t ache and burn as they do now. His two feet have never been this sore, and he wears out at least three pairs of boots a year.

He watches Geralt work, mesmerized, as if he hasn’t seen this same routine a hundred, a thousand times before. It’s comforting and easy—this is something he has seen for nearly three decades, and it has changed little.

He drifts as Geralt works. His mind wanders; he thinks about his curse, and how Geralt’s lack of explicit worry is bleeding into him and alleviating the rush of muted panic just at the back of his brain. One or way another, they’ll figure it out; with Yennefer on their side, he isn’t terribly worried of this hiccup being permanent.

There’s a rustling noise that sifts through the noise of his mind. “Are you hungry?” Geralt asks, pulling Jaskier from his thoughts. He’s sitting across the camp, on the other side of the fire he started without Jaskier even noticing. He beckons Jaskier over. “Come here.”

Jaskier huffs and does as Geralt says, prancing around the fire. He sits next to Geralt’s thigh, in awe of how impossibly large his witcher is, and takes the offered bit of jerky that Geralt hands to him. He chews hurriedly, half-starving, apparently, and almost bites the tip of Geralt’s finger with his impatience.

Geralt tickles behind Jaskier’s floppy ears. “This is odd, isn’t it?” he muses aloud, but it’s mostly to himself, it seems, as he is looking far off into the woods surrounding them and paying Jaskier very little attention. “This is a story I cannot wait to tell. Vesemir and Lambert will love it, I’m sure.”

Jaskier nips his fingertips, petulant.

“Relax.” Geralt gives Jaskier one of his rare, lopsided grins. “I’ll be more truthful than you are in your songs. I’ll talk of your legendary prowess as a lover, and how your selflessness was misunderstood and led to you being cursed into the form of a dog.” He stops for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I may even add that the curse couldn’t be broken until your true love was found.”

Jaskier makes a fractious noise at that—utter _lie_. Fairytales be damned, that is not how curses are broken.

Geralt’s crooked grin grows, and, wonder of wonders, those dimples that hide so deep in his cheeks appear, two twin craters that Jaskier wants to crawl inside. “What? Don’t you think embellishments make for a good story?”

Once more, Jaskier makes a sound that’s part growl and part whine. He wishes so desperately that he were able to speak so he may correct his witcher on the proper etiquette of storytelling.

Geralt must understand Jaskier’s whine for something that it isn’t because his darling smile disappears quickly, leaving behind an ache in the center of Jaskier’s chest. “It’s okay, Jaskier,” he says, holding another bite of jerky out for him. “Yen will figure this out, as she does, and then everything will go back to normal.”

Jaskier takes the proffered jerky and chews it quietly, gathering his thoughts. He knows Yennefer will help him because the two of them are close friends, despite the way they snip and bite at one another. Having your heart broken by the same man really opens the gateway to a rather intimate, platonic relationship, as it happens.

Besides, it was Jaskier who ripped the chains off her wrists when she was held at that elven camp after she burned Sodden and the soldiers there, and if sharing an experience like that, bathed in the blood of their enemies and covered in the ash of the trees that were razed to the ground, doesn’t forge an everlasting bond, then Jaskier isn’t sure what would.

He shuffles his four feet into a more comfortable position, but doing so catches a sore spot on the bottom of his right paw, and he lets loose a sharp whimper of indignation and brings his weight up off the ground.

Geralt reaches out and grabs his paw, jerking him closer. “You’re hurt,” he surmises. “Why didn’t you say anything?” He grunts, then. “Don’t answer that. It isn’t like you can.”

He twists to the side and rummages through his bag for a moment, digging beneath trinkets and thick notebooks full of the lessons he’s learned while on the road; he brings out a gray metal tin and holds it in his hand. Jaskier recognizes it as the salve he often sees Geralt spread on his hands when his callouses rip open.

“I have salve,” he says, unnecessarily, as Jaskier knew he was searching for something of the sort, but he appreciates Geralt speaking nonetheless, if it’s only to give words to things Jaskier already knows. “Come here. Come.”

He reaches out and curls his big hand beneath Jaskier’s belly, lifting and pulling him close. He settles Jaskier on his lap, which is just— _odd_ , truly, because Jaskier has been here before, of course, for when the situations called for it, but not as a dog, and never, ever to be treated for something as trivial as a wound on his foot.

Geralt flicks the lid on the tin off with one hand while the other holds Jaskier’s paw up for inspection; he dips a few fingers in and then rubs the thick oily stuff liberally on the bottom of Jaskier’s foot as if this isn’t the first time he’s soothed a sore on a dog before.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I should have realized.”

Jaskier’s chest is too small right now to hold the flutter he feels inside at this obvious display of fondness Geralt is giving him, so he boops Geralt’s palm with his nose a few times, hoping Geralt will understand the touch for what it is—an acknowledgment of appreciation and thanks, and a silent recognition of the vastness of Geralt’s affection for him.

Geralt smiles once he’s finished rubbing the salve in, but he doesn’t speak again and instead lets Jaskier stay there, in his lap, while the two of them enjoy the warmth of the sputtering fire and finish the jerky.

Around them, the forest is loud. The fire crepitates like the creek just through the brook of trees, like the crickets buried in the lushness of the grass; it’s all a song of its own, older than any fairytale Jaskier’s ever heard, and he feels at home in the rawest of ways.

Geralt clears his throat. “It’s odd not hearing your voice or the lute after we eat,” he announces, staring off into the trees ahead of him. “I got used to it, I guess, over the years.” The hand that was on Jaskier’s belly moves up to tickle at the space between his floppy ears. “When you’re not here, I don’t miss it. But this is different. You’re here, and I’m not hearing it, and I—I miss it.” He frowns, knitting his brows together. “Huh. How ‘bout that.”

Jaskier rumbles in his throat. He wants to shout, suddenly, because the look on Geralt’s face, even from this angle, means that he’s just realized something rather prominent and, dammit, Jaskier wants to _know_ every thought that flashes through his witcher’s mind because it’ll do Geralt no good to go about thinking something that is just not true.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Geralt continues, mostly to himself. “The weirdness of it all.”

Jaskier sighs and falls into Geralt’s chest as he moves onto the bedroll and reclines. He gives his lute a longing glance, wishing he could hold the instrument in his hands as a sort of reassurance.

Geralt follows his line of sight. “I guess I could try to play it for you,” he teases, eliciting a huff from Jaskier. Geralt kind of laughs and it thunders in his chest, vibrates Jaskier’s body where he’s at, curled up just beneath Geralt’s chin. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s your craft.” He rolls over onto his side and tucks Jaskier so close that he’s lulled by Geralt’s slow heartbeat. “Sleep. We have another long day ahead of us.”

*

“Jaskier.”

There’s a tap on the sensitive tip of his nose. He snuffles and rolls and snuggles into the spicy-smelling bedroll.

“Jaskier.” This time, with more force. “Wake up.”

He opens his mouth to say something to Geralt, to tell him to shove off, but when he goes to speak there’s a hoarse bark instead of human words, and he frowns, confused, and then realization hits and he opens his eyes and rolls back over and looks up and sees that Geralt is kneeling beside him, already dressed and ready to go for the day.

Geralt smiles, brighter than the sun. “You move so much in your sleep.”

Jaskier scoffs, kind of, and wiggles till he’s off the bedroll and standing on the forest floor. He notices a dish of water and a small pile of leftover jerky on one of the saddlebags next to where Roach is standing, tacked and ready; he saunters over and gnaws on the jerky as quickly as he can, only stopping to take a few swallows of water when he’s sure Geralt isn’t watching him.

It takes a lot for Jaskier to be embarrassed—especially in front of Geralt, his dearest friend, who has seen Jaskier at his worst and at his best. But lapping water from a bowl as a dog is definitely something that makes Jaskier’s proverbial cheeks burn with mortification.

He’s just as useless packing up camp as he was getting it ready, so he sits back on his heels and observes Geralt. He moves confidently, fluidly; he’s done this a hundred, thousand times before, and it shows in his quick efficiency.

It’s a sight, truly. Jaskier and Geralt have known one another for nearly three decades, but, still, Geralt is an absolute marvel to behold; Jaskier knows him, and _knows_ him, but it’s amazing, genuinely, how there are still things Jaskier regards about Geralt that surprises him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls, tearing him from his thoughts, “quit gawking and come over here.”

Jaskier toddles over and sits on his butt at Geralt’s feet, looking up expectantly.

“You’re riding Roach with me,” Geralt says, and then he’s bending and lifting Jaskier, hauling himself with one arm up and onto the saddle. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before we get to Yen, and you’ll only slow us down if you walk.”

Jaskier barks and finds Geralt’s fingers to give them a quick nip, just to let Geralt know that he is not a fan of being undermined for his swiftness as a four-legged pet.

Geralt chuckles, a new normal that entices Jaskier wonderfully, and tucks Jaskier close to him as he encourages Roach into an easy walk, and Jaskier pretends that he doesn’t know the real reason Geralt’s insisting him ride on Roach today.

After all, even Geralt deserves to keep some of his secrets to himself, no matter how intricately the two of them are tucked into one another’s strings of life.

*

Jaskier is pissed off.

Why’s he pissed off?

Well, this is why.

He’s on Roach with Geralt. He’s on Roach with Geralt, something that only happens once in a blue moon, a delicacy to be savored, like ripe fruit fresh off the vine or a melody on a sunny day, and Geralt’s body is moving from the pace of Roach, an odd wave-like motion in the saddle, and instead of being behind Geralt, or in front of Geralt, to share the motion, to feel the motion, and wondering if Geralt would be slow when he fucks into him or fast, move the way he moves when he’s riding, Jaskier is a dog.

Jaskier is a dog, held in Geralt’s lap, between his legs on the saddle, and he is pissed off about it because he’s experiencing a phantom sensation of blue balls. He wants to fuck and he wants to be fucked—he wants to bend Geralt over a fallen log in the woods and eat his hole out till he’s wet and begging to be filled; he wants to be laid down in a meadow of flowers and spread out and taken apart by Geralt’s tongue, fingertips, cock.

He hasn’t been this frustrated about fucking since he was seventeen and escaping to the horse stalls with the stableboy, where they shoved their hands down one another’s breeches and brought each other off as fast as they could, smothering their pleasure with wet, open-mouthed kisses too sloppy to be as sexy as they pretended them to be. 

Is this part of the curse? This, of course, being Jaskier’s perpetual state of hallucinated horniness. It’s there, at the back of his mind and the breadth of his chest; it’s more of a memory than a conscious feeling but he knows what he wants, knows what his _rightful_ body wants, and he isn’t getting that in this form.

Fuck. _Fuck._ That’s the last time he screws around with a mage. He’s officially 0 for 2.

“Jaskier, quit growling,” Geralt says, petting him between the ears and, _fuck_ , that feels magnificent. “You’re scaring Roach.”

Roach huffs, tossing her head as if she _knows_ the thoughts that are running through Jaskier’s mind and disapproves. He does not dignify her reproach with a response. If she were in his shoes—well, fact is, she isn’t, and that’s probably a good thing. Had the witch somehow swapped Jaskier and Roach instead of turning Jaskier into a mutt… he is not sure what chaos would have erupted from such a thing but it would’ve positively been epic.

“Jaskier.” Geralt laughs this time, tickling the nape of Jaskier’s neck. “Relax. We’ll be at Yen’s by sunup tomorrow. Just hold on for a little while longer.”

Ruffled, Jaskier nibbles at the skin of Geralt’s exposed wrist. Geralt huffs, confused and exasperated, and makes a noise of inquisition, and Jaskier doesn’t think he would give reason to his irritation even if he could speak.

*

Everything is going marvelously well until a band of highwaymen cross their path, slipping from the brush of trees and blocking Roach’s gait.

There’s three of them; they’re large, taller and broader than Geralt, with patched clothing and daggers that are dirty with brown blood, cracking and flaking off as they twirl their weapons in a show of misplaced intimidation. The smiles on their faces are evil sneers, filthy and ugly.

Geralt climbs off Roach with practiced ease. He leaves Jaskier in the saddle with a pointed glare that says, insistently, for him to stay put. He turns to the highwaymen and sighs. “What do you want?”

The man in the middle steps forward, holding the dagger steady in his hand. His hair is brown and his skin is pale and his beard is unruly. “A witcher,” he says in a heavy Lyrian accent. His mouth curls into a smirk. “Never seen one of you before.”

Geralt offers a tight-lipped smile. “You aren’t missing anything, I assure you,” he replies. “I would greatly appreciate it if you’ll let my horse and I pass.”

A second man with orange-red hair shuffles about and announces, “I don’t think we can allow that,” as if his voice has the strength behind it to carry like Geralt’s often does. Jaskier scoffs. “We’ll take everything you’ve got, witcher, including that horse and mutt of yours.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

The last man—blond, brightly so, nearly the same color as Geralt’s hair—says, “I think you’re misunderstanding the chances of three versus one, witcher.” He snarls, and, gods, he’s awfully ugly. “You won’t be victorious.”

“Nobody’s talking to you, sweetheart,” Geralt replies. “You stay there and be quiet. I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

There is no more talking after that, hilariously enough, because the brunet and redhead move forward quickly, apparently insulted at Geralt’s snide comment toward their friend; their daggers are raised high above their heads and they run at Geralt, slashing, but Geralt sidesteps them rather easily, shoving one to the ground and grabbing the other by the collar to sling backward.

Everything happens fast after that.

Geralt is methodical. He parries with the two men, hands against blades, without breaking a sweat. He knocks the first man unconscious with a blow to the face; blood squirts from his nose immediately and he falls, still as a marble statue.

The second man is moved to his knees a moment later when Geralt swipes his blade and does some sort of weird twisty footwork that allows him to bend and slice at the tender skin behind the kneecap. He drops down with a cry; Geralt stands over the two of them with a half-grin on his face, almost as if he’s enjoying this attempted robbery.

He throws the dagger away, into the woods off the trail. “I do believe my companions and I will be taking our leave now,” he says, dry as always, and spins on his heel and makes his way back toward Jaskier and Roach.

But the third man, who must be feeling some sort of way for being left out, rushes forward, and Jaskier has no time to think, absolutely no way to speak, either, and so he braces himself and jumps as far as he can.

He lands on the man’s face, catching him off guard. Blindly, he lashes out, biting and locking his jowls and holding tight. The man falls hard, so hard it rattles Jaskier’s teeth, but he stays held on regardless of the ache in his jaw, regardless of the blood in his mouth that tastes like dirty coins.

“Jaskier!”

That’s Geralt’s voice, full of worry and disbelief, and then there are fingers beneath his belly, ones that he knows, that are as familiar to him as his own, and he allows his grip to slacken until he can be picked up and held, away from the man who is writhing in pain and whimpering, holding a hand to the meaty part of his shoulder where his clothing is ripped and bloody.

Jaskier growls and curls against Geralt’s chest, unbothered at the sight of the man before him. He deserved it, after all, for thinking that he could sneak up on Jaskier’s witcher.

“Surely you’ve learned a lesson here,” Geralt says. There is an odd lilt to his voice, one that Jaskier has never heard before. “A bunch of fools, all of you. Leave these woods and stop terrorizing travelers.”

The highwaymen mumble and stutter over their words; Geralt doesn’t dignify any of them with a response, having said everything he wished to, and turns his back to them. He mounts Roach, who bristles as she walks past the three men, and as they leave, Jaskier. realizes that Geralt is fighting back his laughter so desperately that it’s shaking his entire upper body.

*

They stop a few hours before dusk, when the sky is streaked with wispy clouds leftover from the fluffier ones, and make camp in a small clearing nestled next to a ridge that’s the cliff to a tiny creek. Jaskier curls up on the single bedroll while Geralt sees to Roach and builds a fire; he dozes insouciantly, twitching in half-formed dreams full of vibrant colors and whistled songs.

When he wakes an imperceptible amount of time later, he sees that the fire has burned comfortably for an hour or two and that Geralt is no longer in camp. He’s set out dinner and drink, though, and Jaskier yawns the sleep away and hurries to finish the meager meal before setting off looking for Geralt.

Geralt’s scent of lilac and honeysuckle and lemons, a mix of Yennefer and Jaskier and Ciri, is easy to pick out from the bright fragrance of the forest. He follows it indolently, unworried at what he’s going to find at the end of the path.

It’s Geralt, after all. And he isn’t going to leave Jaskier, you know.

He finds Geralt in the winding creek on the other side of the ridge. The fading sun is dipping below the horizon; orange-yellow-red-white light filters through the grove of trees, displaying all sorts of brilliant colors across Geralt’s bare skin as he washes in the deepest curl of the creek.

Pleased with himself for following the scent trail and coming out victorious, Jaskier takes a seat on a plush growth of clover and observes his witcher.

The setting sun makes the droplets on his skin shine like the jewels that catch his eye in village markets. His hair shines like ancient bone, washed and polished; his skin is pale and his scars are differing shades of pink. He washes himself thoroughly, if a bit methodically, with the bar of lavender-scented goat’s milk soap that Jaskier stuffed into his pack months ago.

He woofs beneath his breath. It’s nice, knowing that Geralt uses his gifts.

Geralt doesn’t notice Jaskier presence, it seems. He ducks beneath the surface of the water and rises; he soaps his hands and washes his hair fast, scratching at his scalp so roughly that Jaskier winces and lifts his eyes to the sky.

The moon, faded and almost translucent, has risen. She’s going to be full tonight, the brightest form in the sky even amongst the million sparkling stars surrounding her. Perhaps it has something to do with the chaos in his blood, but he has always loved the moon, especially when she is plump and round and full. There is something so liberating about feeling the ebb and flow of magic in his fingertips as the moon watches from above.

A soft, bitten-off moan steals Jaskier’s attention away from the moon. He drops his gaze back to his witcher, curious but somewhat terrified at the same time. He blinks quickly, surveying the parts of Geralt that he can see, until his eyes settles on Geralt’s bicep. He’s moving it quickly, in a stroking motion; the water ripples around his torso, spurred by the movements beneath the surface.

There’s another sound of pleasure, and, oh, _oh_ , Geralt is fucking his fist beneath the water.

Jaskier is overwhelmed. He thinks that, if he were in his normal body, that his nose would be bleeding profusely.

He digs his paws into the thicket of clovers and watches the scene unfold before him, mesmerized. It isn’t as if they’ve never walked in one another before—fact is, Jaskier has seen Geralt’s ass more than seems possible. But they’ve never got off in front of one another like this, with no partner and nothing but their fist to fuck in to.

Geralt is slow, knows just what he likes. He twists his wrist, focuses on the head; he folds his other arm behind his back and reaches between his cheeks, fingering at his hole with only the water to slick the way. He bites his lips, gnawing on the skin, but the light noises of his pleasure still reverberate in the air.

Jaskier heard Geralt and Yennefer when they were together, of course. He knows what Geralt sounds like when his dick was shoved down her throat, or when he was smothered between her legs and lapping at her cunt, or when he was fucking up into her, from behind, from the side. He knows what Yennefer sounds like, too, and he would be lying if he says he never got off to the symphony of noises the two of them made with one another.

But this is different. This is Geralt pleasuring himself, and he does it so gently and kindly, like he has all the time in the world and wants it to last as long as possible. Jaskier wishes terribly that he could share this with Geralt, but Geralt doesn’t care for him the same.

Geralt tips his head back, lets out a little mewl that is going to haunt Jaskier for the rest of his life, and comes.

Jaskier quite literally falls over backward, floored. Beneath his fur, his skin burns.

He’s never seen anything quite so exquisite before, and he studied at the university—he _knows_ art and Geralt coming into his fist as he bathes in this creek puts everything else to shame.

He stays on his back until Geralt’s breathing returns to normal and then rolls onto his tummy and gives a halfhearted bark, alerting his presence.

Geralt looks over his shoulder, spotting Jaskier. He grins.

“Are you guarding my virtue?” he asks teasingly. He finishes rinsing the few leftover suds from his body and takes his time walking to the bank of the creek; he grabs a small towel and wraps it around his waist before coming to kneel in front of Jaskier. “My little sentinel, always watching out for me.”

He puts his hand on Jaskier’s head, the one that he was fucking his cock into beneath the water only moments before, and tickles behind Jaskier’s ears. Jaskier leans into the touch eagerly and turns his head, licking Geralt’s palm in the fleeting chance that he can perhaps get a taste of Geralt’s orgasm; if dogs could purr, he’s sure he would be doing so this very moment.

“What would I do without you? Hmm?” 

Jaskier wishes to say everything on his mind, but he can’t. And perhaps that’s for the best, really—it isn’t as if Geralt would appreciate Jaskier laying his heart out for him to see, especially after his cheeks are still faintly pink from his pleasure.

Geralt chuckles, lightly. “Come on.” He stands, motoring for Jaskier to follow. And he does so; he made that choice nearly thirty years ago and he hasn’t regretted it since. “Let’s rest. We’ll reach Yen’s tomorrow.”

*

Not long after dawn, they reach Yennefer’s late summer estate. It’s a large, gray rock mansion of sorts; Jaskier knows it to be spacious and extravagant inside, as he has his own room just down from Geralt’s with a window that sees the first rays of sunlight. She gifted it to him after he found her in Sodden, swearing to him that he will always have a place wherever she happens to be.

He adores this powerful, terrifying woman. 

Yennefer answers the door in a flurry of lavender-colored magic. “You’re early,” she says immediately, and then, a moment later, as her eyes traverse Geralt and Jaskier, she slants her head and sighs. “What’s happened now?”

“Jaskier’s cursed.”

“I see that.” She reaches for Jaskier and Geralt lets him go; it’s odd, being cradled against Yennefer’s breasts as he is, but it isn’t altogether unpleasant. They’re soft and pliable, and they smell decadent, and he nuzzles her intimately, scenting the valley between her breasts that isn’t covered by the bodice of her dress. “I’ll need more information than that.”

“Of course.”

Geralt enters the house and shuts the door with a light slam. Yennefer leads him, tickling behind Jaskier’s ears as she holds him close, to the sitting room where there’s already a pot of warm tea on the table. Triss is curled up on one of the settees, flipping through an illustrated book; next to her is Ciri, sleepy and dozing, wrapped in a cover of furs that is definitely too hot for this obdurate heat.

Triss notices them first. She raises a brow at Jaskier in Yennefer’s arms; she sniffs the air, faintly, and her nose wrinkles as the scent of the other mage’s magic wafts from Jaskier’s little body.

“Oh, dear,” she says, lovely and soft as ever, and marks her page in the book she’s reading before setting it down on the oak table in front of her. She turns to Ciri and ghosts her fingers along Ciri’s forehead. “Ciri, sweetheart, your father is here.”

She wakes slowly, sluggishly, stretching her arms above her head and yawning hugely. Jaskier’s heart soars to the moon and beyond—he loves Ciri so much, so fiercely, as if she were his own child, and he would bite the ankle of every mage or monster on her tail. She need not ever ask because he’ll do anything to see her smile.

“Dad?” She frowns, blinking fast at the yellow-white light shining in through the large windows. On her ruddy cheeks are creases from sleep; she looks warm and rested, and Jaskier wishes hopelessly that he could draw her in his arms and put his face in her hair. “Dad!”

Ciri jumps up, nearly tripping over the furs at her feet, and darts toward Geralt. At fourteen, she’s grown but still shorter than her father; her head hits his chest, hard, and the two of them grunt as their arms wind around one another for a firm embrace.

“Hey there, cub.” Geralt soothes a big hand over the top of her head, petting down her hair before he places a kiss there. “I’ve missed you.”

Jaskier watches the scene with a heart and body full of love, only a little overwhelmed by the explicit display of adoration between the two of them. Though terrified at first, Geralt has flourished as Ciri’s father and mentor; he indulges her, listens to her, shows her kindness and strength and softness—there is no other man in the world worthy of this child’s affection than the one she is holding in her arms this very moment.

(Jaskier still remembers the first time Ciri called Geralt her father. It was the end of their first winter at Kaer Morhen, all of them, a few years ago; she was curled into his side, sipping a bit of cider as Geralt read from a bestiary and Jaskier wrote in his journal by the fire. She yawned, and nestled further into Geralt’s bulk, and said, “I’m sleepy, Dad,” and Geralt stopped reading and Jaskier stopped writing and the two of them watched Ciri fall asleep against her father’s shoulder. The smile Geralt gave him was dazzling and beautiful and awed. After that, Ciri never called him Geralt again.)

Beneath him, Yennefer trembles, almost, and Jaskier thinks that she probably shares the same sentiment, as well.

Ciri leans away from Geralt’s chest and blinks up at him. “Where’s Jaskier?” she asks. “He was supposed to be with you.”

“He is.”

Ciri frowns. “Then where is he?” 

Yennefer coughs. “He’s right here, Ciri,” she answers, motioning to Jaskier in her arms. He wants to hide in her bosom a little bit longer. “There’s been an accident.” 

Ciri’s nose wrinkles and Jaskier regrets that he can’t kiss the scowl off her face. “That’s a dog.”

Triss stands from the sofa and walks toward them. “Yes,” she says, smoothing the few wrinkles from the skirt of her flowing yellow dress. She comes to stand beside Yennefer; Jaskier wonders if he can take paint to poster and create an image of these two women as he sees them. “It’s also our dear bard, Jaskier.”

Ciri moves close to Yennefer and raises a hand to put on Jaskier’s back. She looks at him, intensely, and finds something in his eyes that resonates with the Jaskier she knows because she gasps and whispers, “Jaskier?” in a voice laden with disbelief. 

Jaskier whimpers, cowering further into Yennefer’s chest. Her tits are second to only Geralt’s.

Ciri turns back to her father. “What happened, Dad?”

“Yes, Geralt.” Triss crosses her arms over her chest and gives a small laugh. “What happened to him?”

Geralt sighs and shakes his head. “He meddled with a married woman and her wife cursed him into a dog,” he answers, glaring at Jaskier, but it’s fond with no fire behind it and Jaskier feels himself light up from the inside. “Can you break it?”

“As eloquent as ever, Geralt,” Yennefer breathes. She’s still not let go of Jaskier or made any move to set him down; he doesn’t think about the reason why because it feels too nice to be held close to her, enveloped in her warmth and scent. He has _missed_ her. 

“It’s not complicated,” Triss acknowledges. She strokes her fingertips across Jaskier’s nose, chuckling when he moves into her touch. “The mage who weaved the curse must not have cared about the strength or longevity of it as opposed to causing immediate embarrassment.”

Geralt leans against the wall and crosses his feet. In this house, surrounded by his friends, Geralt is comfortable and empty of worry. It’s a sight to see, something that Jaskier delights in. “You’re saying it can be removed?”

“Of course it can be removed,” Triss answers. “Easily.”

“However,” Yennefer begins, stepping forward and depositing Jaskier in Geralt’s arms once more, “it can also run its course and dissipate naturally.”

Geralt cradles Jaskier without complaint, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s fur. “I’m tempted to choose that option.”

Startled, Jaskier whines.

Geralt chuckles. “Relax, Jask.” He pets over Jaskier’s head, wincing when Jaskier nips his fingertips. “I’m not letting you spend another day as a dog.”

“Hmm. Go bathe and get some rest in a real bed, Geralt. It won’t take us long to break the curse.”

“I’d rather stay with him.”

“Isn’t that sweet?” Yennefer muses, but, astonishingly, there’s a smile instead of a sneer on her pretty lips. “Come along, then. We aren’t doing this in the sitting room.”

*

After sending Ciri outside to tend to the horses and livestock—much to her dismay; she is an endearingly nosy child who likes to be in the middle of everything—Yennefer leads them to a room beneath the stairs that is small and crowded with shelves full of herbs and potions and particles of questionable origins. There’s a large wooden table in the middle of the room; off to the side, beneath a large circular window, is a sofa layered in soft-looking furs.

“Put him down there,” Yennefer tells Geralt, motioning to a sofa.

Geralt nods and walks toward the sofa, sidestepping a few small tables littered with books, and takes a seat next to Jaskier. He keeps his hand on Jaskier’s back, though, unconsciously tickling at the underside of his belly.

Triss notices Geralt’s attentiveness and smiles secretly, as if she knows something that Jaskier doesn’t. “You can keep your hand on him, if you’d like,” she tells Geralt. “It seems to calm him.”

“Thank you.”

Yennefer moves about the room, lighting lanterns for extra illumination and dallying here and there with a few curious things before coming over and kneeling in front of Jaskier. She looks him in the eyes and raises her hand, settling it on the space between his floppy ears.

“This won’t take long, Jaskier, but we must be careful,” she says, speaking directly to him. “The mage was sloppy when they cast the curse, but the magic is tangling with your own and we have to be careful not to manipulate your chaos with ours since we don’t know how yours will react.”

Jaskier nods, as best as he can, bumping her palm with his nose twice. He understands her wariness of dawdling with his magic as it mixes with another’s; Yennefer knows about his chaos, of course, but she doesn’t know of its capacities. To be fair, neither does Jaskier, as he’s never fully attempted to reign it in.

Nonetheless, he appreciates her honesty and forwardness with him.

Beside him, Geralt tenses. “His magic?” he asks, slow and deep.

Jaskier winces and shies away from Geralt’s touch, curling up a bit away. This isn’t how he wished for Geralt to find out about his chaos—matter of fact, he hoped to never tell Geralt, truly, for fear that it would bring even more danger to the makeshift family Geralt has made through the years with his child and witch. 

Yennefer looks toward Geralt. “Do you not know?” she demands, and then, when Geralt gives his answer in the form of a slow blink, turns back to Jaskier with an incredulous, half-angered expression. “Jaskier, does he not know?”

Jaskier does not acknowledge her question. It’s an answer in itself.

She scoffs and throws her hands up in the air, standing and walking to the other side of the room. “This is just wonderful.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and breathes, deeply.

“Yennefer.”

“Don’t you dare use that tone with me, Geralt.” She marches back toward them, full of fury and agitation. She stands before Geralt and stares down at him. “I knew the moment I met Jaskier that there was a special kind of chaos in his blood, but we never spoke of it. I can’t believe you never realized how remarkable your bard is.” She turns to Jaskier, then, and gives him a soft smile as she curls her fingers beneath his jowls. “And I never told a soul, either, Jaskier. I would never break your trust like that, darling. But you should’ve told your witcher a long time ago.”

A sticky emotion bubbles up in Jaskier’s chest and spills over endlessly. He loves Yennefer—not the way he loves Geralt, of course, but there is an adoration in his heart that he holds for Yennefer that will never belong to another as long as they all shall live and even after that, too.

Between the two of them, Geralt’s fingers twitch, as if he wants to reach for Jaskier but he’s holding himself back. “What kind of chaos?” he asks ghost-soft, the way he speaks while he’s on a hunt. 

“If you’d like, you can ask Jaskier all about his magic once he’s back as himself and rested,” Triss replies, announcing herself as she comes to stand behind Yennefer. For a moment, Jaskier forgot she was present. “I’m sure he’s eager to explain to you why he kept this secret from you for nearly thirty years, but he can’t do that until we get rid of his curse.”

Geralt blinks. “Thirty years,” he repeats, almost dreamily, as if he’s just realized how many years Jaskier has spent by his side.

 _You fool_ , Jaskier thinks, but it’s disgustingly affectionate.

“Yes, Geralt.Thirty years, and he still is the same now as he was when the two of you met.” Yennefer scratches her fingers beneath Jaskier’s snout one last time before she pulls away and stands to her full height; she squares her shoulders and, like this, Jaskier sees her for the supreme mage that she is. “Now, hold him while Triss and I work.”

*

Jaskier rouses from a deep, dreamless sleep when the sunlight from outside shines through the window and paints his closed eyelids shades of orange and yellow and red. He blinks his eyes open and yawns; he stretches, hard, and hearing the pops of his very sore, very human joints is almost better than music.

He rolls over, away from the sun, and sees Yennefer sitting in a wooden rocking chair next to the bed. She looks up from the book she’s reading and gives him a dazzling smile.

“Good morning, Jaskier,” she says, marking her page and shutting her book. “How do you feel?”

Jaskier has to clear his throat twice before answering, “Human,” in a tiny, gravelly voice.

“Good.” She stands and moves to the small table in the corner; on it is a silver tea platter. She pours him a cup of warm tea and hands it to him. “You slept for two days.”

He blows on the liquid before taking a small sip. “Is that normal?”

“You did undergo two very intense transformations in the span of four days. I would be surprised if you weren’t sleeping.”

“No side effects?”

“You may randomly bark like a mutt for a while, but other than that you’re fine.” She laughs at her lackluster humor and puts a hand on Jaskier’s forehead to soothe his furrowed brow. “I’m only joking, Jaskier. Everything is as it should be. Are you hungry?”

He remembers Geralt feeding him by hand and a wave of shame washes over him for a quick moment, but it fades fast, thankfully. “Yes,” he says, and then clears his throat. “Yes, I am.”

“I’ll bring you some soup in a moment,” she says. “I don’t want you to eat anything that may unsettle your stomach for a few days just to be sure.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Triss is with Ciri in the sitting room, teaching her some parlor tricks,” she replies. “It was my turn to sit with you while you slept.”

Jaskier nods. “Geralt?”

Yennefer removes her hand and takes a step back. “Outside with Roach, I believe,” she answers, fiddling with a thread on the skirt of her dress. It’s such a childlike movement; it looks so out of place on her, but it makes Jaskier smile.

His witch is human, after all. It’s moments like this when he remembers that the walls she’s built are easy to knock down when you know the heart of the timid woman hiding behind them, as he does.

“He does that when he has a lot on his mind.”

“I know.” She sighs. “You should’ve told him.”

Jaskier drops his eyes in shame. “It was never any of his business,” he says, rolling carefully onto his back and setting the tea on his chest. “Besides, it never came up. And he should’ve noticed that I wasn’t aging, anyway.”

“That’s a lie.” She sits on the bed next to him; taking the cup of tea from him, she holds it in one hand while the other cradles his chin and forces his face toward hers. “He’s in love with you, Jaskier. Of course the longevity of your life because of your chaos is his business, regardless if he should’ve noticed himself. Don’t you think Geralt deserves to know that the man he’s given his heart to will not die as easily as he suspects?”

Jaskier tries to pull his face free of her grasp, but her grip is strong and she doesn’t let him lead away. “That’s not fair,” he whines, aware that he sounds like a petulant child.

“It’s the truth.”

Her smile is small, gentle and understanding, like only Yennefer can be. The two of them, vastly different and magnanimously enamored with one another, are two parts of the same whole; Jaskier never thought he would find his other half in the form of a mage who held a knife to his throat, but Destiny is odd and he’s seen first hand what happens when one runs from her.

Jaskier doesn’t want to ever run from Yennefer.

“My mother told me to keep it a secret,” he starts, taking a deep breath. “She said that empires would want me if they knew of what I can do. I didn’t even know I had enough chaos in me to do much of a difference to my lifespan, Yen.”

He doesn’t know his own limits. He’s never tested himself. Bringing life to one thing means taking from another; the world needs balance to sustain itself. Who is he to disrupt that delicate stability by dishonoring Destiny’s wishes?

“I believe that,” she says, smiling. She lets go of his chin and cradles his face, rubbing the skin beneath his eye with a smooth thumb. “With the proper training, I think you could rule the continent if that’s what you wanted.”

He shakes his head. “It isn’t.”

“I know that,” she tells him, and it feels, suddenly, like she’s swearing her fealty to him. How odd. “It’s okay for you to be scared, Jaskier, but you must know that you will be protected. By Geralt and myself, and Triss and Ciri, and every one of the witchers you’ve got in the palm of your hand and an immeasurable amount of others who adore you.”

Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yennefer,” he breathes, a warning.

Logically, he knows he is cared for and held in high esteem. Of course he knows this—after the mountain, after Sodden, after stumbling upon Yennefer and fanning her flames, and being introduced to the people her and Geralt call their own, and then becoming one of their own, he knows he’s cared for.

But it’s entirely different to hear that care acknowledged aloud.

She tilts her head, indulgent and adoring. He doesn’t know how he ever feared her. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She smiles, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Of course, sweetheart,” she says, leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead. “We are family, after all.”

*

There’s a steady, sharp knock on the door as soon as Jaskier steps out of the bathing room and into the room Yennefer gifted him years ago. He knows who it is, of course, too familiar with that knock for there to be any doubt on who is seeking him out.

Sighing, he pulls the bathing sheet tighter around him. “Come in,” he calls, sitting on the foot of the bed next to his clothes and vial of oil.

The knob turns and Geralt is there. He looks rested, washed and fed—he’s wearing a white silk shirt and black cotton pants, Jaskier’s favorite ensemble of his, and his hair, the color of polished bone, is loose around his shoulders.

He steps inside, shuts the door behind him, and smiles. “You’re back to yourself, I see,” he observes, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the floor, and, _gods_ , does he look delectable like that. “And you smell nice, no longer like a wet dog.”

Jaskier huffs and adjusts the sheet around his hips; there’s no need for Geralt to see how flustered Jaskier is when he’s dressed like that.

“And you smell like Roach,” he bites, though there is no heat to it. “The tub is free, if you want to bathe.”

“Later,” he says. He uncrosses his arms and pushes off the door, walking further into the room. He looks like he wants to run to Jaskier, almost, and take him in his arms, and Jaskier yearns for him to do so, to prove to him that nothing has changed. “How do you feel?”

“Like myself again.”

“Good.” Geralt stands there, awkwardly, looking at Jaskier but _not_ looking at Jaskier at the same time. “I should—”

“Stay in here with me, please?” Jaskier asks, hurriedly, and reaches his hand out. Geralt doesn’t take it with his, of course, but Jaskier isn’t mad.

Geralt nods once, hesitantly, and then again, as if he’s figured something out, and comes closer. There’s a rocking chair on the other side of the room, beneath the window where Yennefer was sitting in earlier; Geralt walks around the foot of the bed where Jaskier is perched, covered in nothing but a bath sheet, and takes a seat. It creaks beneath his weight, the loudest noise in the room.

Jaskier picks at a thread on the sheet. “Did you figure everything out while you were with Roach?”

Geralt huffs a laugh, amused at the fact that he’s known so well. “We’ll see,” he says. He’s quiet for a moment; Jaskier can feel his eyes, can feel the way he keeps them on every single one of Jaskier’s movements. “Jaskier, I—“

“I didn’t tell you about my magic because my mother made me swear to keep it a secret,” Jaskier hurries to say. He sits further up on the bed and turns to Geralt, who’s looking at him expectantly. There’s a twinkle in his honey-colored eyes; Jaskier thinks maybe it’s unbridled affection, almost, but that doesn’t make sense. “She said it could be dangerous if I were manipulated by the wrong people. It’s… different, like Yen said.”

“Special,” Geralt says, as if the distinction is important. “She said it was special.”

“Isn’t that the same thing? Anyway, I was so scared of my magic falling into the wrong hands that it never crossed my mind to tell you.”

Geralt relaxes against the back of the rocking chair. “I thought, perhaps, that you kept your magic from me because you didn’t trust me.”

“No!” Jaskier says, maybe a little too vehement, but he can’t fathom the idea of his witcher, of the man he loves, thinking that Jaskier doesn’t confide in him. “ _No,_ Geralt. I trust you with my life. I was terrified of what might happen to you if anyone ever discovered what I am capable of. Which is—I know you can take care of yourself and I should not worry.”

“And yet you do.” Geralt’s face is soft, incredibly so, and he smiles gently. “Can you show me your magic?”

Jaskier nods, taking a deep breath that stalls in his throat. “Of course, my dear,” he says, shutting his eyes and opening himself up to the chaos in his blood and soul.

On the windowsill, next to the rocking chair, are two potted plants; one is a vibrant green with thick leaves and fragrant flowers, while the other is pale with barely-there buds. It feels natural to take from one to give to the other, to share the wealth of growth and nourishment.

When he opens his eyes, the first plant has withered, just a bit, and the second one has flourished. They are equal.

“Look.”

“Necromancy,” Geralt whispers, filled with wonder. “I haven’t seen that in decades.”

“I’ve never met another,” Jaskier replies. “What happened to the necromancer you knew?”

Geralt pulls his attention away from the potted plants and looks Jaskier in the eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” he responds, and, truthfully, his refusal to give an honest rebuttal is answer enough.

“They died, didn’t they?”

“It doesn’t matter, Jaskier,” he says, again, with more force. Jaskier can almost feel it, as if it’s a palpable thing boiling between them. “That won’t happen to you.”

Jaskier tangles his fingers in the fabric of the sheet and tugs fitfully. “How can you know that?”

“It’s insulting that you still question my loyalty and determination to keep you alive after all this time, Jaskier,” he scoffs, audibly angry, but the expression on his face is hurt. “Nothing will happen to you as long as I am at your side.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt says his name, half in agony and half in hope. “Please.” 

“No, Geralt. You have to use your words.” He needs Geralt to use his words; he has been so good at it, lately, with Jaskier as a dog. That doesn’t have to change now that he’s back as he’s supposed to be. “Otherwise I will only hear what I wish to hear.”

“And what do you wish to hear?”

Jaskier swallows, nearly terrified, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Geralt’s. “For you to say that you love me the same way that I love you.”

It’s as if a flood rises, then, as a bright sort of relief washes over Geralt’s face and rinses everything else away, leaving pure joy in its wake. “Jaskier,” he says, like a prayer, standing from the rocking chair and moving forward to kneel on the bed, so close but so far away. “Jaskier, I’ve been saying it for years.”

Immediately, Jaskier opens his mouth to refute Geralt’s declaration—because there’s no way that can be the truth; Jaskier is a master of love, and he would _know_ , he would, if Geralt had been declaring his love for him for years—but he closes it quickly with the realization that Geralt is right.

Nearly three decades worth of memories flash through Jaskier’s mind in mere moments. He thinks of all the times Geralt shoved him out of the way of danger, of all the times Geralt finished the fights that Jaskier started; he thinks of Geralt sharing his bedroll, his food, his coin, his journey, his laughter, his stories, his memories.

Everything is so clear, suddenly, and he sees it all for what it truly is.

He’s been so foolish. Geralt’s been so loud, but he’s never noticed.

“Oh.” He blinks. “I didn’t realize.”

Geralt, the asshole, laughs. “You didn’t want to hear it yet.”

“What do you mean?”

Geralt’s laughter dissolves into a smile that is so terribly tender and fond; Jaskier feels as if he is missing something of utmost importance. “I love you,” Geralt says, effortless and easy—as if this is not the first time he has admitted this aloud to himself, to Jaskier. 

“ _Geralt_.”

Geralt finds one of Jaskier’s hands with his, interlacing their fingers. “I have loved you for years,” he admits. His eyes are warm pools of honey; Jaskier wants to drown in them and see himself the way Geralt does. “Long before you loved me, I believe. I never said anything because I thought you were human.”

“I am. As are you.”

“No, Jaskier.” Geralt’s grip on his fingers tighten. “I thought you would continue to age past maturity, and gray and slow and wither and die, and leave me all alone once more.”

“I will never leave you,” Jaskier swears. “Even if I were to be a human like you suspected and died, I wouldn’t leave you. I’d haunt you.”

He knows that to be true in the deep meat of his heart—not even the gods could pull Jaskier from Geralt. They can try; they will fail. It’s simple fact.

“I know.” Geralt rubs the pad of his calloused thumb along the top of Jaskier’s hand; he feels the roughness of Geralt’s skin on his and wonders how many stories of theirs Geralt has on his body. More than he can count, probably. “I have lost so much, Jaskier. So much. And I thought you were human for nearly three decades—I thought I was going to lose you, too, eventually. And that would destroy me.”

Jaskier brings his free hand up to cradle Geralt’s face in his palm. “I wish you would’ve said something,” he murmurs, even though he knows there is no use in crying over milk that has already been spilled. “We could’ve had this years ago.”

“You weren’t ready. You were childish, and immature, and flighty and loud and terribly vain.”

Jaskier gives a sulky, “Hey!”

Geralt laughs off Jaskier’s disgruntlement. “And I fell in love with you regardless. But I never said anything because you weren’t ready and I didn’t want to be hurt.” He leans into Jaskier’s touch, turning his head just a bit and pressing his chapped lips to the inside of Jaskier’s wrist. It’s sudden, intimate; Jaskier’s breath catches and holds in his chest. “Am I not allowed to protect my heart from you?”

Jaskier doesn’t dare make a move lest he shatter this moment as he asks, “Am I allowed to have your heart now?”

“You have had my heart since the moment we met, Jaskeir.”

Startled by the admission, Jaskier barks a loud laugh. “Oh,” he says, delighted; there are no words, it seems, in any of the languages he knows, to describe the way Geralt makes him feel. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

The corners of Geralt’s lips twitch upward into a grin. “I wish you would,” he says, dropping his eyes to Jaskier’s lips, and, oh, to hold Geralt’s attention like this, to _realize_ he holds Geralt’s attention like this is magnificent. 

“Oh, my.”

Jaskier grabs Geralt’s face with both of his hands and pulls him in. Their lips meet, timidly at first, and then, a moment later, harder and deeper; Geralt flicks his tongue against Jaskier’s lips and he opens, gratifyingly eager, and falls backward on the bed, taking Geralt with him.

They land awkwardly, limbs askew, but Jaskier is too busy sucking Geralt’s tongue to care much about the semantics of their entanglement at the moment. He thinks, for a moment, that it shouldn’t be like this—it should be perfect, and they should be bare, and the sun shouldn’t be in his face and the room shouldn’t be steamy with water vapor from his hot soak, and Geralt shouldn’t smell like Roach but he does, and he’s sweaty, and he’s heavy, and it’s imperfect, just like the sharp edges of Geralt’s teeth, which are actually, truly, perfect, one of Jaskier’s favorite features, and—

Geralt pulls his mouth from Jaskier’s; a string of saliva stretches and curves between them, and Geralt sucks it up, licks his lips like their spit is the best meal he’s ever had, and Jaskier’s vision becomes fuzzy and white at the edges.

He grabs Geralt by the ears and jerks him back up for a slick, filthy kiss that makes his toes curl and his heart thump in his chest. He feels Geralt laugh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, and it settles in the pit of his stomach like a weighted anvil, and he fills full of—of everything. Full of everything that his witcher is giving him.

Geralt gives his tongue one last suck before moving his mouth to the side and down. He kisses Jaskier’s chin, cheek, jaw; he nips Jaskier’s jawbone, and then bites, hard, the asshole, the tease, and flattens his tongue and soothes the sting.

Jaskier shivers. That tongue—he wants it all over his body, inside of his body.

Geralt flits his mouth along Jaskier’s jawbone, biting with teeth and laving with tongue. His hands come up to cup Jaskier’s tits; his fingers, calloused from his swords, flick over Jaskier’s nipples till they’re pebbled and insistent, begging for constant attention.

He catches and holds each of Jaskier’s nipples his thumb and forefinger. He pinches roughly, eliciting a whine of pleasure-pain from Jaskier; he stuffs his face in Jaskier’s throat and smiles against Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier brings his hands up and splays them in Geralt’s hair, combing through the few knots he finds and keeping Geralt’s mouth pressed into the hollow of his throat. If he’s supposed to feel terror at having someone so powerful held so close to him like this, he doesn’t. He’s sure there’s a kink in there somewhere, but he doesn’t have the brain cells to worry about it just yet.

Later. After they’ve both come a few times. Maybe.

Jaskier moves his hands and tangles them in the fabric of Geralt’s shirt; he tugs it up and over and off, quickly, as Geralt divests himself of his cotton pants, rolling to the side and kicking free of them. He shifts and settles between Jaskier’s legs, pressing weight on to his hip. He drags one of his hands down Jaskier’s chest, tugging at the hair till Jaskier is mewling, before dipping his fingers beneath the bath sheet that is haphazardly covering Jaskier’s swelling dick.

Jaskier gurgles some sort of sound in the back of his throat as he feels Geralt’s hot, hard cock nudge at the tender skin on the inside of his thigh. “We still have much to discuss, my dear,” he says, breathless and overwhelmed but so, so feverish. He laughs, happy and overjoyed.

“Later.” Geralt kisses Jaskier’s throat, gently, and then wiggles down, dragging his lips along the valley between his chest. He settles his chin on the swell of Jaskier’s tummy and blinks up at Jaskier, tugging the bath sheet free from Jaskier’s hips. “I’ve waited decades to have your taste on my tongue.”

Jaskier brushes his fingertips across Geralt’s forehead, a benevolent caress that makes Geralt’s lashes flutter. “I didn’t say that for you to stop,” he says, reaching low and gripping the base of Geralt’s cock, delighting in the startled groan that leaves Geralt’s mouth. “I very much wish to be railed by this glorious, pretty cock of yours. And perhaps rail you in return, later? I can’t say I haven’t thought of you crying on my cock before.”

“I can’t say I’ll cry on your cock, but I do want to ride you,” he says. Jaskier’s cock twitches so hard it catches him by surprise. Geralt laughs. “I felt that.”

Jaskier huffs. He drags his hand up the fat length of Geralt’s cock, pulling the foreskin back; the tip is so wet and sticky, and he wants to put it in his mouth, down his throat.

“Well, you can’t just _say_ stuff like that.”

“I can’t?” he teases, moving down, down, until he is eye-level with Jaskier’s cock. He grips the base lazily with one hand; he uses his thumb and forefinger to pull the foreskin back from the head. He grins at what he finds. “Jaskier, I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this pretty cock from me for decades. This color pink is my favorite.” He presses a kiss to the base, just beneath his fingers. "How many times have you thought about me riding this pretty dick of yours?”

“Geralt!”

“It’s so pretty, Jaskier. So pretty.” He mouths at the tip, tasting the wet bit of precum Jaskier can see, running this fingertips along the underside ghost-soft. “This vein right here? I’ve always wanted to run my tongue along it, every time I saw you in my bathwater. And your balls? They’re so soft, fit so well in my hands. I want to choke on you.”

He cups both of Jaskier’s balls in one of his hands, lifting them up and letting them drop once, twice, three times before he tugs at them persistently, just this side of too harsh. Jaskier whimpers, stroking the side of Geralt’s face; their eyes meet and lock, and Jaskier gives his witcher the biggest smile he can muster.

“There’s oil around here somewhere,” he says, slapping at the bed and furs till he finds the vial of oil he was going to rub in to his skin after his bath. “It’s honeysuckle.”

Geralt hums. “My favorite.” He takes the vial from Jaskier’s proffered fingers and puts it somewhere that Jaskier can’t see. He flashes Jaskier a dirty, devilish grin, and a moment later the wet heat of his mouth is around the tip of Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier shouts. He doesn’t mean to, but, gods, the first time Jaskier saw Geralt’s lips form words he was thinking about how they would look wrapped around his cock, stretched wide, and nearly three decades of dreams have nothing on the reality of it.

Geralt suckles the head, laving the tip with his spit till it’s wet and dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He slips down in increments that are just lovely, using his spit as lube to jerk the length that isn’t held in his mouth until his nose is nestled in Jaskier’s curly pubic hair. He breathes in, deeply, as if he’s trying to drench himself with Jaskier’s scent.

He slurps up and off; his lips are kiss-red and wet, and when his eyes meet Jaskier’s he smiles happily. He sticks his tongue into the slit as far as it’ll go, nurses the tip, blinks prettily, like the most sought-after whore, and says, “Fuck my mouth, Jask.”

Jaskier groans from deep within his chest. He grips the base of his cock, where Geralt’s fist already rests, and feeds his length into Geralt’s mouth; he doesn’t stop till he’s all the way in, spreading Geralt’s mouth wide and stuffed down his throat.

Geralt swallows around Jaskier’s dick. His eyes flutter and he moans, like he’s getting pleasure from this too; the sunlight pouring through the windows catch Geralt’s lashes and makes them glimmer like magic.

He’s so beautiful like this, mouth and throat full of Jaskier’s cock, like he was born to suck Jaskier off. His face is smooth, free of any negative emotion; he seems at ease, pleased, as if he could stay here forever, between Jaskier’s spread legs with his nose burrowed in the thickest patch of hair at the base of Jaskier’s length.

Jaskier drops his head back against the pillowed furs, spreads his legs so wide it begins to hurt at his hips, and lets Geralt suck his soul out through his cock.

It is lovely—lovely like the first ray of sun after a sudden storm, lovely like the wisp of a flower petal. But it isn’t anything poetic—it’s the wet, warm cavern of Geralt’s mouth, and the tightness of his throat, and the calloused grip of his fists, three things that Jaskier has dreamed about for decades, and he isn’t going to last if Geralt keeps this up.

He finds Geralt’s ears and tugs him up and off his cock, hissing at the hint of sharp teeth against sensitive skin, and wipes the spit and precum off his chin. Geralt gives him an inquisitive look, leaning in to Jaskier’s touch and licking across the veins of his wrist.

“You suck dick good,” Jaskier praises, giggling, breathless. “I can’t—you’re too good.”

Geralt laughs. “Thank you.” He sits up on his knees and indolently strips Jaskier’s cock, up and down at a leisurely pace. His hand, so big, looks normal as it fondles the length. “I’ve had a century to practice.”

Jaskier groans, absolutely destroyed at the flashing images of Geralt with multiple faceless people through the years, before he was born and after, in the back of taverns and tucked in the stables and in the woods, on their knees, dirty and wrecked and wet with cum and spit and slick.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he says, because he has to. Geralt makes a cute little noise and presses his thumb into the divot of Jaskier’s chin. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Geralt tilts his head. “I’ve always looked at you like this.”

“Don’t romance me.” Jaskier pokes Geralt’s tummy, just above where his cock juts from between his legs. And it is a glorious cock, of course—thick, fat, wide, not so long that it’s intimidating but the perfect mouthful, handful. Jaskier wants to choke on it, wants to be stuffed and told that he’s doing good, that he’s so pretty when he gags like that. “I will cry deliriously, and then what will you have? A sobbing bard spread beneath you? My reputation would be ruined, darling.”

Geralt scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I missed your voice,” he admits, softly, like it’s a secret to be kept between the two of them. 

Jaskier is floored, wide-eyed and gaping. “You really love me, don’t you?”

Geralt nods. “Yes,” he agrees, exasperatedly fond. He bends over Jaskier, pressing their noses together and kissing Jaskier’s lips lightly. “Though gods know why. You’re the hardest person to love I’ve ever met.”

Well. That’s something to revisit later.

Jaskier brings Geralt’s mouth to his. He tastes himself on Geralt’s tongue, sweat and precum and the soap from his bath, a succulent experience; between his legs, Geralt shifts up, just a bit, and slots his cock in the cradle of Jaskier’s hips, right next to his dick. He thrusts up, sliding their dicks together, and Jaskier jerks so hard he nearly bloodies his nose on Geralt’s chin.

He pulls away, tugs on Geralt’s hair, scratches Geralt’s chest and hopes that Geralt wears those marks for more than mere hours. “Fuck,” he says, thickly. It’s the only word he knows in this very moment. “Get in me.” He hits the bed till he locates the vial of oil; it feels significantly emptier than it was a moment ago. “Get _in me_ , Geralt.”

Geralt chuckles and takes the oil from Jaskier’s hand. “I was rather hoping you’d get in me,” he says, rearranging Jaskier’s entire world for the umpteenth time today.

“What—”

He cuts himself off as Geralt straddles his hips, sitting on the lower portion of Jaskier’s stomach. “Yeah.” He rakes his fingers through Jaskier’s chest hair. “Wanna ride you.”

Geralt opens the vial of oil and tips some of it into the palm of his palm; he reaches behind him with that hand to slick Jaskier’s cock generously while the other is planted in the middle of Jaskier’s chest to help balance him. He rubs the tip between his cheeks, letting the head catch and pull on the rim of his hole.

“Gods, Geralt.” Jaskier puts his hands on Geralt’s ass and digs his fingers in, kneading and spreading, exalting in the truth that he can have this, that this is his and no one else’s. “Were you fingering yourself open while you were sucking my cock?”

“Yeah.” Geralt nods, steadying Jaskier’s cock. “I’ll let you watch next time.”

The head breaches Geralt’s hole and he sinks down slowly, steadily, until he is sitting on Jaskier’s lap. Inside it’s hot and tight and wet; Geralt did good, opening himself up for Jaskier and taking his length gloriously well. He wonders just how much it’ll take for Geralt’s pretty hole to gape and makes a note to call on that line of thought later, too.

“Fuck, Jask.” Geralt puts his hands on Jaskier’s chest, tangling his fingers in Jaskier’s hair. “Fuck, you’re so big. So deep.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier puts one of his hands on Geralt’s stomach, and presses, and thinks maybe, just maybe, he can feel himself shoved up inside Geralt’s guts. Surely not, though; he isn’t that large, no matter how many sweet words that have been whispered to him through the years. “You like it?”

“Yeah.” Geralt nods, biting his lip. He lifts up, slowly, till only the tip is inside of him, squeezed by stubborn muscles, and then falls back down with a soft smack. “Mm. _Yeah._ ”

He moves up again and drops back down. His cock, so pretty and wet, slaps up and down, against his stomach and Jaskier’s. Awed, Jaskier fists Geralt’s cock, tugging the foreskin back and pressing his nail into the slit; he gathers the pearly bead of precum on his finger and brings it up to Geralt’s lips. Geralt opens his mouth wider and sucks Jaskier’s finger into his mouth, shutting his eyes and laving it with his tongue like he did Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier’s eyes cross and he shudders. This man is made of everything good in the world.

Geralt moves faster, bouncing on Jaskier’s cock beautifully. He lifts up, drops down; the sound of skin meeting skin permeates the air, echoing Geralt’s stunted moans and Jaskier’s punched out breaths. It’s a familiar, somewhat altered tune, and it is Jaskier’s favorite song, especially now that he can share it with Geralt.

Geralt takes Jaskier’s finger out of his mouth. “Oh,” he breathes, wide-eyed and flustered. He clenches, suddenly, harshly, and then comes. His cock twitches and white ropes of cum paint Jaskier’s chest, dirtying his chest hair. A bit of it lands on Jaskier’s chin; he sticks his tongue out, gathers a little bit of the taste, and relishes the flavor like the gods do their ambrosia as he swallows it down and yearns for more.

Geralt fucks himself through his orgasm, grinding on Jaskier’s lap and pressing the flat underside of Jaskier’s cock against that spot inside of him, prolonging the shocks of pleasure. His body shakes, like creaky windowpanes in a summer thunderstorm, and, still, once his orgasm is over, continues to move.

Jaskier frowns, confused. “What?”

Panting, ruddy-cheeked and fucked out, Geralt asks, with a crooked, boyish grin on his lips, “You didn’t think all that moaning and wet mess was Yen’s, did you?”

Jaskier puts two and two together, comes up with four like he’s supposed to, and, _oh_. Witcher mutations and all, of course, but he didn’t expect them to manifest quite like this.

“How many times can you come?” he asks, amazed. He grabs Geralt’s ass, picks him up a bit; he brings his legs up, fixes his heels into the bed, and drills up into Geralt’s hole as deep as he can.

Geralt leans forward and plants his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, shoving his ass down and meeting Jaskier thrust for thrust and grinning as he does so. “How many times can you make me come?” he challenges, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Jaskier fucks up into Geralt, hard, several times, delighting in the noises that fall from Geralt’s mouth. Geralt flounders, absolutely lost in the pleasure and knocked off the rhythm he built with his bouncing, and comes again; jizz hits Jaskier’s chin and Geralt drops down, licking it off as Jaskier fucks him through his orgasm and into another one not long after.

A tight fist of heat gathers in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach and he follows Geralt over the edge the third time. He comes and comes, and comes, more than he has in years, filling Geralt up so good, so much, that it begins to leak out before he even finishes and pulls free.

Geralt finds his mouth as he falls to the side, bringing Jaskier with him; he hitches his leg up and lays his knee over Jaskier’s hip, scooting and slotting their sticky, dirty bodies together. Jaskier reaches around and works the meat on Geralt’s ass before dipping his fingers between his cheeks, into his hot little hole. He feels around the rim, tugging Geralt open and letting his jizz trickle out of his hot hole. He stuffs in as much cum as he can, fucking his tongue into Geralt’s mouth as he fucks his fingers into Geralt’s hole.

Eventually Jaskier has to breathe, much to his displeasure, and he slides his lips off of Geralt’s. He snuggles in, putting his face into the humid heat of Geralt’s throat, and breathes in deeply a few times.

“How do you feel?” he speaks the question into Geralt’s skin.

Geralt hums, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders. “Wonderful.” He runs his fingers up and down Jaskier’s back, along the ridges of his spine and the dimples at his tailbone. “I’ve never—”

“I know.” Jaskier leans away and flashes Geralt a dazzling grin. “I know.”

Geralt kisses Jaskier’s lips. “Yeah,” he says, smiling, “you do know, don’t you?” He catches Jaskier’s lips again; they kiss, sucking one another’s tongues and rutting their cocks into each other’s tummies. “How much longer till you’re ready to go again?”

“Again?”

“Yeah.” Geralt rolls over onto his back, taking Jaskier with him. “I don’t want to stop until you’ve filled me up so much that I’ll be stinking of you for days.

Jaskier curses and kisses Geralt hard, rough. He grabs Geralt’s thighs and bends him in half, slots his hips against Geralt’s balls and gets back to work. 

*

Several hours later, after they’ve washed each other in a fresh bath and dressed in clothes that aren’t soiled by body fluids, they venture from the room. They find Yennefer and Triss in the backyard, beneath an ancient weeping willow tree; they’re sitting on a blanket and between them is a basket of fruit, cheese, and bread. Ciri is further out in the yard, giggling and chasing after a dog that looks suspiciously familiar.

Jaskier pretends to be put out about the dog, but it’s all in good fun. Besides, Ciri’s smile is so bright it puts the sun to shame.

They find a seat on the blanket next to Yennefer and Triss, taking the food and wine they’re offered. Conversations ebb and flow, like the late summer wind blowing through the yellow-brown grass and making the blades dance together. Geralt finds Jaskier’s hand with his and interlaces their fingers; the sun sinks lower in the sky, drenching the wispy clouds in flashes of watercolor.

“Everything’s okay?” Yennefer asks, raising a brow at Jaskier and Geralt’s clasped hands. She doesn’t look confused; in fact, she looks happy, beautifully so, and Jaskier’s cheeks warm.

“Yeah,” Geralt answers, tightening his grip and bringing Jaskier’s hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles. His honeyed eyes sparkle, twinkling brighter than any star in the sky; Ciri runs over and sits on her father’s lap, kissing his cheek affectionately and laying her feet on Jaskier’s thighs.

Jaskier shares a grin with Geralt. “Everything is wonderful.”

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/geraskefers) and [tumblr](https://geraskefers.tumblr.com)


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